


Morning in Beirut

by ariadnes_string



Category: Homeland
Genre: Collection: Purimgifts Day 3, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-22
Updated: 2013-02-22
Packaged: 2017-12-03 05:27:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/694671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariadnes_string/pseuds/ariadnes_string
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Saul and Carrie get stuck in a tight place</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morning in Beirut

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Roga](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roga/gifts).



> thanks to alba17 for the beta!

“We’d better wait for nightfall,” Carrie said, moving away from the thin fabric curtaining their hiding place and crouching beside Saul. “I know where we are. There’s a friendly house not far from here, but there’re still too many hostiles in the area. Think you can hold out that long?”

“Of course.” Saul tried to inject confidence he didn’t feel into his voice. “It’s not long. And I’m fine.” He shifted to give her more space to lean against the wall. But the movement jarred his injured ankle, and his bitten-off hiss gave the lie to his words.

It had been a mistake to come along. He was too old, too accustomed to working behind a desk to be any use in the field. But it had seemed such a routine mission—circling the market to find the origin of a cell phone signal, their equipment safely hidden in a non-descript van. Routine, that is, until the van had been rammed broadsides by another vehicle. 

Saul still wasn’t sure whether the accident had been deliberate or not. All he knew was that some part of the van had crushed his right ankle when it rolled. The other agents had scattered, as per protocol, taking the equipment with them. He’d watched them, dazed with pain, struggling and failing to get to his feet.

And then Carrie had been back, slinging his arm across her thin shoulders and almost dragging him into the tangle of buildings around the bazaar. They’d heard shouting and pounding steps from other parts of the market—something that might have been a shot. Finally, Carrie had pulled him into a room filled with bales of fabric and then into a corner partitioned off with a burlap curtain. She'd settled him against the stucco wall and disappeared again. Saul could hear her bargaining with someone in a rapid mix of French, Arabic and Lebanese.

How she’d found this space or what she’d paid for the use of it, he didn’t know. She must have escape routes built into every neighborhood, Saul thought with a surge of pride. 

Carrie prodded his ankle, and tried to bind it, but every touch was a jolt of agony. Probably just a bad sprain, she said, and he accepted the lie.

It was airless in their alcove, and hot. They dared not speak. Saul could feel the sweat seeping through his hair, matting his beard. He tried to wipe his face before it trickled into his eyes, but they still stung. He closed them.

Behind his eyelids, Saul replayed the mission, searching for the moment when things had gone wrong, the thing he should have foreseen or fixed. Had they been spotted? Had the crash been a deliberate attack? Had any of the others fallen into hostile hands? 

Panic started a mean swirl in his stomach, fed by the throbbing pain in his leg. He wouldn't give into it. He couldn't--for Carrie's sake if not his own. He almost laughed at how much he wanted to stay strong for her-the perfect mentor, always in control-and what a mess he'd made of it so far. The panic threatened all at once to turn to tears.

Saul gave up trying to think and concentrated on his breathing. In. Out. In. Out. If he focused intently enough, he could find a pattern there.

“Saul.” It was Carrie, so close her forehead was pressing into his temple, her voice tickling his ear. “Are you okay?”

“Mmm. Yeah. Why?’

“You’re singing.”

Had he been? He hadn’t known. He tested the pattern of his breath again and found it was a tune. “Sorry,” he said, as quietly as he could.

“’S okay.” She put her head on his shoulder and he was glad, the weight of it anchoring him. “I just thought I knew the song.”

“It's an old show tune.” He huffed at the incongruity of it. “From _Oklahoma,_ I think.”

“Oh yeah, my dad used to hum it--he could never carry a tune. _Oh what a beautiful morning, oh what a beautiful day,_ ,” she whispered, so quietly the words were more vibration than sound. 

“That’s the one,” he said. “Thank you for rescuing me.”

She slipped her hand into his and squeezed. The trust in the gesture, the generosity, floored him. “ _I’ve got a beautiful feeling, Everything’s going my way_ ,” she sang tunelessly into his ear.

 

gif by fuckyeahmandypatinkin on tumblr


End file.
